Tag: Megalomania

I Cannot Be in a Het Relationship

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

If you read the blog post title, you might be thinking, “Whoa, that’s pretty extreme.”

If you didn’t read the blog post title, I’ll repeat myself. I cannot be in a het relationship.

Now that you’ve had time to think, “Whoa, that’s pretty extreme,” allow me to explain. Just in case you’re that thoroughly invested in my non-existent love life.

As it has been well-established, I am bisexual. Or bi+. Or queer. Therefore, it is impossible for me to be in a het relationship.

This tends to confuse people. As a bisexual person, I am (unfortunately) attracted to men and have been in relationships with an unlucky few. From the outside, it looks like I’m in a het relationship. There’s a cis woman and a cis man (or a trans man) doing relationship things. Why would anyone suspect anything different? Hell, even the poor fella in the relationship would assume that it was a het relationship if he’s, ya know, cishet.

Hate to break it to you, my dude, but you’re in a queer relationship here. Relax! It doesn’t make you any less het. It also doesn’t make me any less bi.

I think this is one of the most baffling aspects of bisexuality (and probably pansexuality, but I don’t identify that way, so I won’t speak for them). Most people don’t seem to understand that our sexuality isn’t defined by our relationship status. We don’t suddenly stop being bi because we enter into a “het” relationship. Our Rainbow Mafia membership cards don’t get revoked because of other people’s straight perceptions. We do not choose sides. We’re on the same side we’ve always been on. The Bi Side.

Don’t think I’m picking on the fellas here. By the same logic, I cannot be in a lesbian relationship either. Sure, it’s still a queer relationship because we’re both queer, but it’s not a lesbian relationship because I’m not a lesbian. It’s not a lesbian relationship if the other woman is also bisexual. Or pansexual. Or trans. Yes, even if the trans woman identifies as a lesbian. See the above statement in which I cannot be in a lesbian relationship because I do not identify as a lesbian.

You may be wondering what the big deal is. Who cares if people think your relationship is het? Or lesbian? Well, I do. I care because it’s my relationship and it deserves to be respected in its definition. I realize that strangers glancing in the direction of me and my hypothetical partner can’t determine such details from a distance, but the people closer to us are more in the loop. They should know. They DO know. But when it comes to being in a relationship with a man, it’s easy for them to dismiss my queerness because of the straight optics. I don’t like being dismissed.

I also care because I don’t need or want a cishet male partner using his cishetness to dismiss my queerness. Your straight dick didn’t straighten me.

My bisexuality is an important part of my identity and it doesn’t go away if I happen to fall for a dude just because it makes you see straight.

This Is Where I Keep My Crazy

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I realized the other night that I’ve been keeping a journal for over twenty years.

I’ve probably talked about my journaling before, but I’m prone to repeat myself more often now that my brain is 95% song lyrics and movie quotes. So, I’m just going to talk about it again.

I remember attempting diaries as a kid, but never stuck with it. Probably because I was nine and didn’t have much of a life to write about and even though I was a writer, I thought diaries were strictly for real life escapades. As far as I was concerned, I was not doing any escapades worth writing about back then.

About six months after my oldest niece was born, I was gifted a journal. She’s twenty-two now. Anyway, it took me a couple of weeks to work up the courage to write my first entry. Once that seal was broken, though, I found it easier to write down my thoughts. But it would be years before I made it a daily habit.

Despite what my nine year old self thought, I’m still not using my journals strictly for my real life escapades, though the few escapades I do manage to have typically rate a mention.

My journals are where I keep my crazy.

My mind is a hellscape. It frequently gets too full. That one time I saw a therapist for three appointments before she got sick and I never rescheduled, she said that part of my problem is that I hold things in to the point that they overflow, and that retention was contributing heavily to the toxic state of my mind. So, I started putting the things that I couldn’t or didn’t want to talk about out loud into the pages of my journals. It helped. It got it out of my head and onto the page where I could see it and examine it from a safe distance. Poking about the words spewed from my brain has helped me a lot when it comes to figuring out how my defective grey matter works.

My roommate, who once had her privacy invaded thanks to a journal-reading incident, asked me how I can just leave my journal on my bedside table without worrying about someone reading it.

Simple.

If you read my journal, you get what you deserve.

People underestimate the shit that goes on in my head. I’m not just writing about annoying coworkers and petty grievances and people I find dreamy (though I do mention that sometimes). I’m not just jotting down my goals and to do lists and my dreams (though I do that, too).

This is where I keep my crazy. My rage. My self-harm thoughts. My go-to-jail thoughts. My delusions and illusions. My paranoia. My anxiety. My depression. My whacked out, what the fuck thoughts that would make even the strongest whimper and cringe. This shit is not for the faint of heart. It’s not even for the sure of heart.

If someone decides to go sneaking a peek at those pages, they’re going to end up scarred for life. They’re certainly never going to look at me the same way ever again. And it would be all their own fault.

I have every intention of destroying my journals before I die. Or leaving instructions with someone I trust to have them destroy them for me. There’s no goldmine in those pages, nothing publishable, nothing salvageable, nothing memorable. Nothing that needs to be remembered.

They’re just bits of my mind, anyway.

They should go with me to the grave.

What’s My Stretchmarks Rebrand?

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Remember when everyone started calling the stretchmarks gained in pregnancy “tiger stripes”? It was done in an effort to make child bearing folks feel better about the changes their body underwent while they were growing and birthing an entire human being. As a collective, we decided to change a flaw to a badge of honor. As well we should. Growing and birthing a person is kind of a big deal.

So, I have to ask…where’s my stretchmarks rebrand?

My first stretchmarks came from puberty, as did a lot of other people’s. Many of these faded marks on my hips I got as I entered my teens. These deep grooves on my breasts came from a late bloomer blossoming so fast that I went up multiple cup sizes in a year. What are these stretchmarks? Boob grooves? Growth charts? Puberty scars? Puberty is a pretty brutal time of life, anyway. Might as well show the stretchmarks as the warrior wounds they are.

And what about the stretchmarks I acquired through weight gain? Why should they be vilified? There are many tasty treats and lazy days behind some of those marks (a lot of depression, injury, and illness, too, but never mind the negative; we’re being positive here). What do we call those? Burrito bands? Cookie cracks? Buffet lines?

I ask these inane questions because stretchmarks are a mark of life. Most people have them. They are proof of growth during life. Why do they need a rebrand? Specifically, why are only one specific type of stretchmarks worthy of a rebrand?

As a society, we’re kind of hung up on exemptions. It’s okay to have stretchmarks as long as you’ve acquired them because of pregnancy. It’s okay to be fat as long as you’re fat a certain way (“curvy” with a tiny waist, flat stomach, and fat ass, also try not to be over a size 14) or you’re a “good” fatty because you’re actually healthy or you’re trying not to be fat. It’s okay to be old as long as you look younger than your age. It’s wild to think of how many of these sorts of societal standards have asterisks on them. Terms and conditions may apply.

In the long run, stretchmarks as a flaw is a bullshit concept. Pristine skin with no evidence of existence is yet another unattainable standard. As I said, many of us get marked in our early teens. Ruined before we begin, no chance at perfection. Of course, there’s no money to be made if we accept ourselves how we are, now is there? I’m not going to purchase a cream to fade my stretchmarks if they don’t bother me. There’s no means to keep us in our places either, so to speak. You can’t shame me for a flaw if I don’t have it, right? Can’t keep me small and insecure, can’t lower my value over a perceived defect if I don’t perceive it.

I’m going to take matters into my own hands. Rebrand my stretchmarks. Not because I think I need to or because I have to, but because I want to. I think it’ll be fun.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go learn to love my boob grooves and buffet lines.

Turning 44

~ Kiki Writes ~ 4 Comments

For better or worse, I have once again completed another trip around the sun and have hit the magic number of 44. Double digits is always a fun number. I don’t know why. There’s just something bouncy and fun about it.

I would love to have a bouncy and fun 44. I’m not entirely sure what that would look like, but I think it’s something to work for. Maybe.

I admit to being off to a rough start. I had Covid for Christmas and I spent New Year’s Eve/Day blowing my nose. An unfortunate incident involving one of the cats and a glass of wine has slowly made the laptop I bought at the beginning of last year unusable. So, at the beginning of this year I bought yet another new laptop in a fit of frustration and now we all need to cross our fingers that this pretty shiny lasts longer than its predecessor. Trust me, neither I nor my credit card are thrilled with this turn of events, but I gotta do what I gotta do to stay in business.

So, yeah, I closed out 43 a lot harsher than I’d planned, which makes me cautious going into 44.

Good thing I’d already planned on taking baby steps.

This is part of The Remarkable Life Deck work I started last year when I turned 43. It’s a 10 year plan after all, and surprisingly I haven’t gotten bored and wandered off, so here I am at 44 still working on it. Last year, I spent a good chunk of time off and on working through the deck and and answering the questions as honestly as possible. Towards the end of the year, I looked at everything I wrote down and came up with a few baby steps I could take to work my way towards the ideals I’d detailed in the journal.

My idea for 44 is to make it a year of baby steps. Every month, I will take conscious baby steps toward my ultimate goals. I have no idea if this is exactly how you’re supposed to use the deck. The way Debbie Millman describes it is that when she did this, she found things happening as if by magic. I get how manifestation and visualization work, but I also believe that those things don’t happen unless you do things to signal to the Universe that you want them and that you’re ready for them.

These will be my signals. Big ol’ flairs sent up on a monthly basis. I think that’s reasonable. And I don’t think it has to be a drag. It sounds very dry and boring, like doing chores, but I don’t think that it has to be or that it will be. After all, the point of this is to work my way into the life that I want. That’s not dull. There’s joy in that. So, naturally there will be joy in the baby steps.

Maybe it’ll be how I make 44 fun and bouncy after all.

Setting the Vibe for the Year

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I have developed an odd New Year habit.

Even though I usually don’t leave my house for New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day, I still put a lot of thought and effort into the outfits that I wear. I want to close out the old year and begin the new one with the right vibe and I do that through my fashion choices.

I can’t remember when I started doing this. Probably around the time I decided it was my New Year’s Eve duty to drink an entire bottle of champagne and toast the New Year appropriately. I can’t remember exactly why I started doing this either. I think I decided that staying home didn’t mean that I couldn’t have fun and dress up. I decided to use it as an excuse to wear outfits I didn’t think I could get away with wearing on an average Tuesday afternoon.

At some point, it morphed into a way to set the vibe for the New Year and it’s become an important part of my celebration. The outfits I choose tend to be funky and a little sexy. They’re fun and colorful and sometimes a little extra. Not at all practical for a night in or a morning after. But that’s kind of the point. It’s a celebration. It’s supposed to be fancy. Just because I’m not out in the streets doesn’t change that. I don’t dress for other people anyway. I dress for me. And when it comes to New Year’s, those outfits set the tone of my year. At least, that’s the intention.

So, when I got Covid this past Christmas, it put my vibe-setting ritual into jeopardy.

The household had done pretty well when it came to avoiding it, but our luck ran out when my roommate brought it home the week before Christmas. She tested positive that Tuesday night and my dad tested positive on Thursday evening. Even with masking and a constant fog of Lysol and hiding in my room as much as possible, I couldn’t hold it off forever, but it did at least take a week to get me. I tested positive on Christmas morning. Ho ho ho.

We were fortunate to get a mild version, my roommate getting it a little worse than the rest of us, my dad faring the best. For me it was like a bad cold. However, I haven’t been sick since before Covid became a thing, so I was way out of practice. It knocked me on my ass for a couple of days. I had a weird sore throat that was almost like an afterthought, spent a couple of days sounding like I was doing an Ursula the Sea Witch impersonation (not a bad thing), and I generated so much mucus I could have skated across the country on my face like a slug. But with a lot of naps, cough drops, and some Puffs with lotion, I bounced back. By Saturday I was feeling well enough to trade my pajamas for lounge clothes. But I wasn’t quite well enough for my New Year’s Eve/Day splendor.

So, instead of closing out 2023 and starting 2024 in some funky threads, I opted for cute and comfy. And a little funky.

That’s a good vibe for 2024, too.

I Impressed Myself This Year

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I know what you’re thinking. You read the title of this post and you thought to yourself (or maybe said out loud as you laughed), “That’s not hard to do!” And for what it’s worth, you’re right. I’m easily impressed. Blame it on the fact that I have somehow managed to retain some childlike wonder, even about the most mundane things like making little changes in my life and the little world that I occupy.

I go into every new year wanting to make changes, wanting things in my little sphere to be different, improved. And usually, I get to the end of that year and nothing has been significantly affected. I have spent years doing this, just being straight up stuck. Its frustrating. I feel like I’m flailing in quicksand and just sinking lower and lower. I acknowledge that much of this is my own fault and the fault of my bad life choice making skills (I also acknowledge the role played by living in a capitalistic society that has a fetish for poverty, bootstraps, and monetizing every aspect of life, but we’re going to focus on me today). Keep doing what you did, you keep getting what you got, right?

This year I chose to do different, so I got different.

Most of these changes were not actually big changes or big decisions and many of them came in the latter part of the year. I sort of think of my Charleston trip as a big turning point in 2023. There’s what I was doing and how I was feeling before Charleston and what I was doing and how I was feeling afterward.

To be honest, I really impressed myself with Charleston. I couldn’t believe I actually did it. Not the actual going on the trip, but the deciding to go on the trip. I’m notorious for wanting to do things, but then putting them off or justifying not doing them. However, my limit had been reached and I was in the mood to do something drastic.

By the time I got on that plane to South Carolina, I was burnt the fuck out. I had a lot of projects going at the end of 2022 and the first part of 2023. Things at the library were hard. Thanks to staff changes, I spent most of the year training new people and working short-handed (that particular shitshow is still ongoing). It felt like I spent most of my time barely achieving the bare minimum of what I needed to get done with no energy for anything else. I was fed the fuck up.

The time away from everything, the physical distance from it, allowed me to gain some new perspective as well as a much needed break. I came home in a better mood and with some baby steps to help me improve my current existence. The real difference this time was that unlike my previous attempts, I actually did the baby steps. I didn’t immediately sink back into the mire of my usual routine. I came up with the plan and then executed said plan. Granted, the plan wasn’t any elaborate scheme, but the fact that I did it -and am still doing it- is progress that I haven’t seen in a long time.

And so far those baby steps have had the desired impact. I’m seeing little improvements. I adjusted my priorities and changed up my schedule and made efforts in certain areas of my life that I wish to improve. Seeing the results of those little changes has encouraged me to keep taking those baby steps.

This sort of thing has a cumulative effect.

By the end of 2024, there’s a good chance I’ll be really impressed.

A Grinchmas Story

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

I’ve probably told this story already on the blog, but I’m too lazy to look it up and besides, who doesn’t like frequently re-told tales? For us old folks, that’s all we got.

Anyway, when I was in my single digits, I shared a room with my younger sister and we had bunk beds. These were not your standard, store-bought bunk beds. My grandfather made us these bunk beds. They were wooden with cubbies built into the head and foot boards for our stuff. They also had larger cubbies on the each end of the bunk bed, which we used as a bookshelf on one end and I think Barbie and My Little Pony storage on the other, if memory serves (and it frequently doesn’t). I had the top bunk and my sister had the bottom.

At Christmastime, my mother would go full ham on the decorations in the house. We rarely put up anything outside, but inside there was Christmas shit everywhere. My mother had a Christmas village that she’d set up on a table. A papermache angel that she’d made in high school would sit in the middle of it (if you even thought about touching it, Santa would give you more than just coal in your stocking). She had crocheted Santa Claus doorknob covers that made it impossible to open doors and the Christmas countdown chain and/or the cotton ball Santa beard countdown among the other decorations we’d bring home from school.

And of course we had a tree. Some years it was in the living room foyer, crowding the front door, which made us grateful we only used it to get the mail. Other years, it’d be put in the dining room near the windows, right next to the bedroom my sister and I shared. I liked those years best because I could fall asleep with the glow of the Christmas tree leaking into our room.

Decorating the tree was a big deal. Like many people, we had a collection of ornaments of sentimental value that always made it onto the tree. I made a Rudolph tree topper in 2nd grade that topped the tree for years. My grandmother had made everyone their own wooden ornaments of various figures, painting them and putting our names on them. Most of them have been lost to time, but I remember I was a rabbit and my sister was a deer. The only ones I still have are my grandpa’s –a drum major- and my grandma’s –a drum. I don’t have a big tree anymore, but I still hang those two ornaments up every year.

My favorite thing, however, was my stocking, which along with my sister’s, was hung on the end of the bunk bed with care.

Over the years, I had a few different stockings, but my favorite was, of course, one that my grandma made. My sister got one, too. For years everything we had was matchy-matchy, but in different colors. Both of our stockings were crocheted with little stuffed snowmen that fit in the top. Mine is green; my sister’s is red.

When Santa still stopped by our house (the presents Santa left under the tree were always the ones my mother didn’t want to wrap), my sister and I would know that he’d been there because after he’d fill our stockings, he’d put our snowmen in bed with us. Of all of my childhood Christmas memories, that’s my favorite. Waking up incredibly early against my will -thanks, Lulu- to find my snowman next to me. My sister and I would then empty our stockings and check out what Santa had brought us before moving on to finding what Santa had left under the tree.

Honestly, it was a brilliant move by mother. The snowman signal allowed us to raid our stockings and bought her a little more time to sleep (our dad worked nights at the time, so he usually got home around the same time we woke up our mother to officially start Christmas). It also created some extra special holiday magic that I still think about to this day.

Fortunately, I found our old stockings years ago and I sent my sister’s to her. I hang up mine every year on my bedroom door. I’ve had to sew up some holes and sew Frosty’s eye back on, but it’s otherwise in pretty good shape.

Santa doesn’t stop by my house anymore, so I don’t wake up to find Frosty in bed with me on Christmas morning, but that stocking still has some magic left to it.

It’s filled with Christmas memories.

An Apology to Everyone Who Has Ever Encountered Me in the Wild

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

If you have ever come across me in public and thought I acted a little (or a lot) weird, I apologize. It’s not you. It’s me. It’s definitely me.

I wasn’t prepared to see you.

Yes, despite living in a small town, I expect to move through public spaces without seeing anyone I know out of the context I’m used to interacting with them in. Sure we went to school together and we’ve been Facebook friends for years, but I don’t expect you to know me, recognize me, or talk to me. This isn’t to say that you shouldn’t. It’s just that I don’t expect you to.

And because I was caught off guard by this clearly unusual occurrence of people who know me actually knowing and acknowledging me, I am fully unprepared for the ensuing social interaction. What follows is several agonizing minutes of small talk that I didn’t study for while my brain screams at me to just be cool, man! The end result is me being painfully awkward and ruining the entire interaction, at least in my mind.

I have had smoother conversations with cops who have pulled me over at one in the morning for speeding. Very unattractive considering as a rule I shouldn’t be talking to cops.

My brain truly short circuits during these interactions. It’s particularly bad if it’s someone I primarily interact with online. We’ve already covered how I struggle with my own object permanence. If I don’t expect people to think about me, I definitely don’t think they remember me or would recognize me out of my own context in their existence. It never fails to shock me when someone knows who I am. And then they try to interact with me and it all goes to hell.

It’s funny how this happens. You would think that someone who works in customer service would be able to function in these situations. After all, I’m making small talk with strangers about their gut flora and peripheral vision on a regular basis (people really will talk to you about anything), so you would think I’d be able to do it relatively easily with people I actually know in some fashion. But no! Not my brain configuration.

I don’t know if the people I’m conversing with are feeling as awkward as I am, not because their brains are plagued with bad wiring, but because my awkwardness is so palpable they can’t help but catch it. It’s none of my business if they think I’m weird and incapable of simple conversation, but I’m pretty sure they think I’m weird and incapable of simple conversation.

And for that, I apologize. It is never my intention to inflict my awkwardness on others. I want to assure you that if we have ever met unexpectedly in the meatsphere (or if we ever happen to cross paths in the future), my behavior has nothing to do with you. You are fine, I’m sure. You’ve done nothing to warrant my terrible small talk.

I just come by weird more naturally than anything else.

Tales of Black Friday

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Despite working multiple Black Fridays in my retail life, I don’t actually have that many wild and crazy Black Friday stories. I mean I was still working fast food when when one of my friends and future coworkers got punched by a customer over a Furby and my sister witnessed three customers wipe out and eat shit running to get a Tick-Me-Elmo.

My first Black Friday, I was a cashier, literally trapped at my register by mobs of people in our little six lane Walmart scoring their deals, carts absolutely full of Christmas gifts. This was back when the store still had lay-a-way, too. There was only one lay-a-way computer at the customer service desk. That line was unhinged, competing with the two other lines at the desk. Sporting goods, electronics, and jewelry all had their registers open and running, too. It was stressful madness. All hands on deck. We absolutely were not paid enough to deal with that chaos.

The next Black Friday, I was a department manager in charge of automotive and sporting goods. One of my besties at the time was in charge of seasonal, which meant lawn and garden in the spring and summer, and Halloween and Christmas in the fall and winter. Our departments were next to the five aisles that made up our small Walmart’s toy department. This gave us front row seats to the two middle aged women who nearly came to blows over a Razor scooter. I had to be at work at 4 in the morning for this.

My last few Walmart Black Fridays were spent in the jewelry department. This was my last go-round and by this point I was a rodeo champ. I didn’t have to be in first thing (which was 3 AM one year) and I sure as shit wasn’t going to volunteer for it. I was good enough to do a 7 AM shift one year, but then 11 AM shifts after that. By that point, the madness was long over and the rest of the day was pretty easy.

I kept this practice up when I worked at The Limited in the mall. I was on the floorset team, working after hours to switch out merchandise and displays. Sometimes we’d only go in twice a month, but when it came to the holidays, we could be there every week. And we were required to work Black Friday even though most of us never worked when the store was open. My first year, I signed up for a four hour mid-shift and ended up spending the whole time folding clothes after people had gone through them. So many people didn’t even have the decency to even try to fold things again. They’d just hold it up, look at it, and toss it back on the table. It was the pricey clothing store equivalent of trashing a toy display to get the one they wanted. Utterly manner-less.

In my four years at The Limited, I only worked one other Black Friday, a mid-shift as usual, and it was pretty not busy. I spent most of my time walking around trying to look busy rather than actually being busy. The other two Black Friday shifts? I was called the morning of and told not to come in because they didn’t need me. I was very content to not be needed

I’ve never shopped on a Black Friday, not after working them. The idea of willingly jumping into that fray just to save some money doesn’t appeal to me. I’d rather stay home in my jammies and eat turkey leftovers.

And with internet shopping the way it is now, I can do just that. Have my Black Friday at home.

Curiously enough, though, I don’t. I rarely shop or buy anything on Black Friday.

Guess those deals aren’t as great when I’m not in danger of being elbowed by a stranger.

I Am a Universe Unfolding

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Once upon a time I was talking to a friend about the disaster of a human being I am and how I find new and interesting ways to fail. And he told me “You are a universe unfolding.”

Damn I love that line. That’s a good line. I don’t mind being a disaster, but being a universe unfolding encompasses so much more than just the disaster element. I mean, when you think of it, the universe was something of a mess when it first got started and there are bits of it now that are most likely in disarray, but there are some nifty areas, too.

That’s something like me.

“I’m not the same person I used to be.” That’s the ol’ personal growth saying, isn’t it? And it’s true. I’m not the same person I was twenty years ago or ten years ago or five days ago. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Growth happens in all sorts of directions, doesn’t it? Cancer is a growth, after all. Can’t say too many people are thrilled with it. In all of my unfolding over the years, I can’t say that I’ve gotten it all right. I know I’ve unfolded some horrors, some really deep dark dimensions that weren’t for the faint of heart. I believe they like to call those times the dark night of the soul and baby, my soul was a pitch black moonless midnight, not a star to be seen.

Not every change I make to my existence is one that works out in my favor. Or in other people’s favor.

The interesting thing about being a universe unfolding is that not everyone appreciates it. Not everyone digs your expansion or your new disasters or your changes or your newness. They prefer you as you were because that’s what’s comfortable, that’s what’s known. Not everyone signed up to boldly go, you know? I can’t blame them. After all, they’re a universe, too.

The comforting thing about embracing myself as a universe unfolding is the unending aspect of it. I don’t mean that I suddenly think I’m immortal or that I’ll be remembered for eternity or anything like that. My legacy is none of my business because I’ll be dead and that presents a different set of concerns. What I mean is that I’m unending. I’m always new. I’m always finding and creating and destroying different aspects of myself and my existence. Even as a person who craves stability and who sometimes struggles with change, there’s something warm and fuzzy about the idea that I’m always…unfolding.

I am still very much a disaster in many ways. I frequently set fire to my own life with my choices. My brain can be an absolute hellscape of anxiety and depression. But instead of offering these things up as evidence of the complete failure of a human I am, I can now show them as examples of the universe I am. These are my black holes. But if you swing that telescope ’round, you’ll see the planets of my creativity and the constellations of my work and the stars of empathy and humor and intelligence, and the meteors of greatness that whiz by.

I truly am an interesting place.

And there’s always more of me to discover.